


It Was Worth a Wound

by spacetrek



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes (Radio 1989-2010 Coules), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, i always end up writing holmes as a hot mess of acd and several adaptations, no betas we wing this like holmes winged the entire reichenbach debacle, that's a lot of adaptations in the tags whoops, this is mostly going to be comfort but some will probably end up being angstier than others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 14,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetrek/pseuds/spacetrek
Summary: An A-Z collection of short hurt/comfort fics focused on Holmes and Watson to keep my hand in creative writing while I haul myself through my last year of college.  Update schedule is nonexistent, but I'm hoping to keep it somewhat consistent.NOTE: This does involve various injuries, but the rating will not ever go beyond T.  However, all the chapters are named with the injury/thing that was injured so you can check that and skip anything you don't care for.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 112
Kudos: 119





	1. A — Accident

“I still don’t understand how you managed to do this.”  
  


“I am sure you heard my explanation,” Holmes said.His tone was somewhat more waspish than normal, but I attributed that to pain, annoyance, and embarrassment, though he never would have admitted to the last.  
  


“I did,” said I.“It’s just not like you to make such a blunder.”  
  


“I am perfectly capable of blundering, though your readers would not know it from your stories.”A muscle in his cheek stood out as he bit down on a flinch.  
  


“Almost done,” I said.I did not say that the last few slivers of glass were the ones buried most deeply and would therefore hurt the most, but I was sure he knew already.  
  


I took a firmer grip on his long, slender fingers and set myself to removing the remaining shards of what had once been a beaker from my friend’s palm.According to Holmes, it had exploded while he was holding it — some flaw in the glass, perhaps.He had expounded upon the varying qualities of laboratory glasswork for some minutes while I dug about in his palm with my finest pair of tweezers.  
  


He was silent now, biting at his mouth to keep still and quiet while I worked.  
  


“At least none of it got in your face or eyes,” I said after a moment.God forbid, his eyes.   
  


Holmes remained silent.Perhaps this possibility had not occurred to him.  
  


“It had occurred to me,” said he, answering my thoughts as he so often did.“It simply did not happen, so there was no point in dwelling upon it.”  
  


I thought, rather, that it was something he did not want to think about either.  
  


His fingers twitched a little under mine, as if to pull away in some reflexive spasm.I caught and held him, and made some vaguely soothing noise in my throat out of long habit with patients who were not Sherlock Holmes.He did not remark on it, but he did not move again, either.  
  


“There,” I said at last, inspecting the sluggishly bleeding cuts with my glass.“That’s the last of it.Let me bandage your hand and we will see how it goes.”  
  


I have always been quick and efficient at my job, and the army had only improved that skill, so it was only a minute before I returned his hand to him.I instructed him to wiggle his fingers, move his thumb, and press his palm against mine.Besides the expected soreness, there was no loss of movement or flexibility.  
  


“Nothing that will not pass,” I said.I knew my relief must show on my face, for I had worried what it might mean to him if his hand was very much damaged.He relied so heavily on his delicacy of touch, for his violin and his chemistry work and his scrapbooking.   
  


“I could have told you that,” said he, but his expression was lighter than it had been while I worked.  
  


“Do nothing strenuous with that hand for at least three days,” I instructed sternly, packing away my medical equipment.“No heavy lifting, no violin playing, no dangerous chemical experiments.”  
  


“Yes, Doctor,” he said.If I had not been watching I think he would have rolled his eyes at me.  
  


"I mean it, Holmes." Knowing better than to press the topic further, I looked at the mess in the kitchen.“Is all that safe to touch?We can't leave it lying there.”  
  


“Hm?Oh, quite.Though I fear I will not be able to assist in cleaning it up.”I was treated to a most sympathetic expression.“My doctor has told me that I can do no work with this hand.”   
  


“Has your doctor neglected to mention that you have two hands?” said I, re-rolling the leftover bandages.  
  


“Yes, but you see, I should not like to cut that one, too.”  
  


I pointed at him, half-rolled bandages ignored.“If I take care of this — and it will be me, because I won’t have Mrs. Hudson fiddling with chemicals and broken glass — you must promise to follow my instructions regarding your hand to the letter.”  
  


Holmes briefly considered the terms.“I promise.”  
  


“Done.”  
  


“Very well.”He looked down at his neatly bandaged hand and sighed a little.“I suppose,” he said, falling back into his usual ironic humour, “I shall go catch up on the agony columns, for it seems that holding a newspaper is the most strenuous activity I shall be engaging in for the next few days.”  
  


“You will thank me when your hand heals properly,” said I, putting my bag away.  
  


“I usually do, Watson,” said he, and his tone was not so ironic this time.“I usually do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet real money I'll be phoning some of these letters in by the time I get to E. Also I'm sort of trying to write in Conan Doyle's style, but I generally hear Jeremy Brett in my head whenever I think of Holmes and elements of radio Holmes get mixed up in there too so it's a smorgasbord of Sherlock Holmes


	2. B — Break

“You know, it would not hurt so much if you would stop trying to stand on it.”

“Yes, thank you doctor,” I said, more snappishly than I intended. “I cannot sit around in the same chair all day, Holmes.”

“Why not?” He tipped his head back over the settee to look at me. “That is exactly what you insisted I do when my knee was dislocated.”

“Because you were trying to take up cricket in our sitting-room and permanently damage your leg,” said I.

“It was a waste of my time, anyhow,” he grumbled. “She was lying all along.”

“Yes, so you have said.” I stood up straight, doing my best to balance on my undamaged leg. I did not know whether it was fortunate or unfortunate that my new injury was on the same leg that bore my old war wound.

“Really, Watson,” said Holmes. “This is ridiculous. Tell me what you want and I will get it for you.”

I paused where I was propping myself against my armchair. “I do not want to be demanding,” said I. In truth, I hated to feel dependent, even upon my closest friend. Some combination of modesty and pride, perhaps, exacerbated by long months of convalescence after I was shot.

“Even I, Watson, am not so churlish as to sit idly by while my friend struggles to go about his day with a broken ankle.”

Holmes’ tone was dry and somewhat acerbic, but I fancied I heard a touch of hurt as well. I immediately felt ashamed of myself. Of course he would only want to help — it was what I would wish, were I in his place. “I am sorry, Holmes,” I said with all sincerity. “I do not mean to be ungracious.”

“I think you can be excused a little ill-temper,” said he, mood restored. “Breaking one’s ankle is unpleasant at the best of times, and to have it broken for you — well.” He clicked his tongue.

“I gave the ruffian something to think about, at least.”

Holmes chuckled. “So you did. I daresay he got the worst of the bargain, and I do not begrudge him. Now!” He clapped his hands together and turned his gaze on me. “What is it you wanted enough to risk yet more injury to your already offended person?”

I lowered myself carefully back into my armchair, knowing my companion could see my sheepish look and that he would immediately and correctly guess that I was stalling for time. “Well,” said I, “I am not really sure. I only wanted something to do, to take my mind off the ache and annoyance.”

“That is understandable,” said he, “though attempting to walk about would likely only increase both those things.”

I accepted the mild rebuke as my due, but Holmes had offered his assistance in my own little problem and I was determined to have it. “Then have you any ideas?”

He considered for a moment, and I saw his eyes brighten as something occurred to him. “I have.” He darted behind his chair, brushing several days’ worth of newspapers from the side table. “You remember, of course, the Saint-Saëns concertante I purchased last month?” I did; he had been delighted to find the piece and spoken about it at length over dinner, though I had not yet heard him play it. “I found time only this last week to devote myself to it, and I trust I am not flattering myself unduly when I say that I am fairly proficient by now.”

“I would like very much to hear it, in that case,” said I.

“Then hear it you shall!” he exclaimed, setting the violin to his neck.

I took an attentive posture. My friend, though quite proficient at his instrument, rarely played for an audience, and I was eager to listen to this exception.

He began, and I knew immediately that he was not flattering himself unduly. All the artistry and fettered passion of his soul seemed to spill forth in the music, flying to every corner of our little sitting-room until it seemed too much to contain.

I sat and listened, my ankle very nearly forgotten. If a broken bone was the price I paid for this music, for this glimpse of my friend, it was more than worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watson's turn at the short end of the stick — I doubt these will end up alternating perfectly, but I'm planning to swap them around.  
> A bit of a reference to Three Garridebs at the end — "it was worth a wound" indeed. I think about that story a lot so it will probably sneak in at least once more during this series.  
> LASTLY: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aC22f2buNLw the violin concertante I had in mind (this recording has the full orchestra, though obviously Holmes would only be playing the solo violin part)


	3. C — Concussion

“Will he be all right?”  
  


Inspector Stanley Hopkins sounded very much concerned, and I reminded myself that he was quite young, and that he had an admiration of my friend bordering on hero worship.“He will be fine,” said I.“Hold still!”  
  


Holmes’ eyes narrowed in what was likely meant to look like a scowl, but I did not miss his attempt to turn away from the lamp I had lit.“I am right here,” said he.“I can—I can answer for myself.”  
  


I knew that Holmes, still with most of his wits about him, would not permit me to do a thorough examination of his condition until outsiders had been banished from the sanctum of our sitting-room.With this in mind, I escorted Hopkins to the door with the understanding that he could return tomorrow afternoon for our statements.  
  


“You gave Inspector Hopkins quite a scare,” I said, returning to the sitting-room.Holmes was where I had left him, and I suspected that he was still too dizzy to move about on his own without risking a fall.  
  


“Inspector Hopkins will, I am sure, recover from his scare.”Holmes had closed his eyes, and he was somewhat slumped now that the inspector had left — his only concessions to the weariness and pain I knew he was feeling.  
  


“You struck your head quite hard, Holmes. It nearly cracked the plaster of the wall.”I removed my coat and drew up a chair.“It was a shock to all of us.”  
  


"I do not know how you could tell if that plaster had any new cracks. It was quite cracked already." Holmes frowned a little at some sudden shouting from the street outside.“Besides — I was there, Watson.I know very well what happened.”  
  


“Head injuries can sometimes cause forgetfulness,” said I, feeling somewhat relieved.If his memory was unaffected, serious damage had likely been avoided.  
  


“We were searching Dr. Warren’s house,” said he, as though he knew my fear of brain damage.Possibly he did.“We did not find the incriminating papers, but the good doctor attempted to bash my brains out against the wall of his waiting-room.Quite enough to charge him with attempted murder, if nothing else.”  
  


“Indeed,” said I.“Open your eyes, Holmes.I need to check your pupils.”  
  


He obeyed, but immediately turned his face away, wincing at the light.I caught his chin and gently pulled him back.“Just a moment.”With my free hand, I turned the lamp down a little.“Can you track my finger?Do not move your head.”I released him, and slowly moved my index finger back and forth in front of his face.It seemed an effort for him, but he managed to keep his eyes on the motion and I put his strain down to simple exhaustion. He had been overexerting himself of late with this case, and I was grateful to see it concluded so that he might rest and eat and recover his strength.  
  


“It is not serious, Watson,” said he.“I have had concussions before.”  
  


“I know,” I said, somewhat dryly.“I have been there for several of them.”  
  


He smiled.I shook my head, but returned the expression.“Do you think you can make it to your chair?”  
  


He looked away.“Ah—not yet.”  
  


“No matter,” I said briskly.Holmes did not like to be fussed over, and I had been a doctor long enough to understand that what was bedside manner to one patient was not bedside manner to another, though Holmes was undoubtedly my greatest test of this discernment.“Up you come.”  
  


With the aid of my arm around his waist, Holmes was able to make his way, just a little unsteadily, across the room to the safety and comfort of his armchair.“My thanks, Watson,” he said, reaching for his pipe.  
  


“Of course.”I sat down in my own chair and picked up the day’s newspaper, which I had not yet been able to read.“If you begin to feel nauseous or confused—”  
  


“I will let you know, Doctor, if I feel strange or ill in any way.”He closed his eyes and settled back.“Believe me, I have no desire for this to become serious or last any longer than it must.”  
  


“Now that, I believe.”If he fell asleep I would have to wake him, but his slender fingers were tapping out a rhythm on his leg — some musical composition or thought-aid; I did not know which. I did note, with no small amount of satisfaction, that the beat was regular and unhesitating. That boded well for his injury.  
  


I lowered my paper a little as so to keep an eye on my friend, and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reading Hound of Baskervilles with a friend this month! she's never read it before, so it's a treat to hear her thoughts as she goes through. Meanwhile I'm noting ACD's little writing quirks to try and work them into my own style, the better to create this mishmash of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and whatever I've got going on.


	4. D — Dog

“You understand, of course, how the dog was the key to the whole story?”  
  


I took a firmer grip on my companion’s wrist, trying to see if any of the gashes in his forearm required stitches.“At the moment I understand only that the dog was responsible for nearly removing your arm from your body.”  
  


“Don’t exaggerate, Watson; save that for your fiction.”Holmes shifted a little on the upturned bucket that was serving as his seat.“Do you truly not see it?”  
  


I was distracted from his question by my examination. None of the wounds appeared to need stitches, but they did need thorough and immediate cleaning.I knew, however, that Holmes very much wanted to expound on the case, and the thought came to me that the topic might serve to keep him still and distracted from the pain while I worked.“You know I do not,” said I, reaching for the bowl of clean water and soft clothes the housemaid had brought.  
  


“I have spoken before of the affect a family can have on their dog,” said Holmes.  
  


“Yes,” said I, laying his arm in my lap.“Do not move.”  
  


“Really, Doctor.”He abandoned his scolding almost immediately, returning to his chosen discourse.“Dogs truly are one of the most imitative animals in the civilized world.Mr. Prescott presented an air of benevolence and charity to all comers, but his dog was of such savage disposition it could not even be kept in the house, for fear it would maul servants or visitors.You recall how I asked the stableboy who looked after the dog.”  
  


“Of course.”I was speaking out of habit now, as nearly all my attention was focused on cleaning Holmes’ wounds.They bled sluggishly while I washed them, but the skin looked healthy and had not swollen, so I was hopeful with my prognosis.“The lad seemed quite offended when you suggested the brute might be his.”  
  


“As well he should!”Holmes winced when I set about the deepest of the cuts, but continued his narrative.“No one but the master of the house came near the dog — no one else would dare.So!No dog is unkind by nature, Watson.He learns unkindness, either by example or by cruelty directly inflicted.Therefore, Mr. Prescott was cruel where the dog could see it, or cruel to the animal itself.Either way, hardly the paragon we were meant to believe.”  
  


“Indeed,” I said.I had paused in my cleaning to press a folded cloth to the gash I had just cleaned in order to slow the bleeding.“And no man carries so weighted a cane without fear for his safety or some darker purpose.”  
  


“Excellent, Watson,” Holmes said, smiling.“Once I knew Prescott’s bland demeanor hid a truly vicious nature, it was only a matter of looking for what else he was hiding.”  
  


“And where,” I grumbled, turning Holmes’ arm this way and that to make certain I had left no dirt or grime in the wounds.“Hiding his groundskeeper’s body in his own stable!Could you not have waited for me?My revolver would have been far more useful against that brute’s teeth than your arm.”  
  


“On that we are agreed,” said Holmes, somewhat ruefully.“I was counting on you to keep Prescott busy long enough for me to find Wilson’s body, and you performed most admirably.”  
  


“I might have performed better if you had told me what I was doing in the first place,” said I, beginning to bind Holmes’ arm.“Though my revolver served well in making Mr. Prescott rethink the possibility of taking that cane to my person.”  
  


Holmes chuckled, wriggling a little on his makeshift stool.“I only wish I had been there to see it.”His expression turned serious.“I would not have wanted you to shoot the dog, anyhow.It might be a brute, but it has known little kindness or mitigating softness in its life.”  
  


“My duty is to you,” I said, checking to be sure the bandage was not too tight.“I have threatened more than dumb animals in the service of keeping you alive.A somewhat thankless service, at times, but one I am devoted to nonetheless.”  
  


“My dear Watson, you must know that you have my most sincere gratitude,” Holmes said.“I know I am rather absent-minded in such matters, but your efforts to mitigate my own shortcomings have not escaped me.I would not have you believe yourself taken for granted.”  
  


“Yes, well,” said I, moved by his gracious words and the utterly honest tone with which he had spoken them.“I would do more for less thanks.And I know you are not ungrateful.”  
  


“And I must thank you yet again for your excellent work, Doctor,” said he, taking back his arm to inspect my work.“You are a master of your craft.”  
  


“I get frequent practice,” I said dryly, scrubbing my hands in the now-cold water.“Though I do not know if I should thank you for it.”  
  


“Best not,” said he.“We wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.”  
  


I flicked water off my fingers. “I think that ship sailed long ago.”  
  


“Perhaps.And yet,” he said, giving me a slyly amused look, “we should not be churlish with our talents.To each his own, Watson, and us two more than most.”He bumped my knee with his own and jumped to his feet.“Come!Let us see what country lawman has been sent to grace us with his presence, and at last see the back of this case.I am ready to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's midterm week!! I am......como se dice.....Struggling  
> I'm already phoning letters in a bit and I'm not even a tenth of the way through well done me. Takes some inspiration from Holmes' little spiel on dogs from Creeping Man because his liking for dogs is one of my favorite small things about his character


	5. E — Electric Shock

In the Oxford English Dictionary, there are many definitions for the word ‘shock.’Three of them are:  
  


  1. A sudden upsetting or surprising event or experience.
  2. Cause (someone) to feel surprised and upset.
  3. Affect with a physiological shock, or with an electric shock.  
  




I was intimately and unpleasantly acquainted with these various definitions of this deceptively short word during Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ last case.  
  


It was a simple thing, on the face of it.We were to prove that a certain Dr. Gabriel Westerly was guilty of malpractice and the death of our client’s husband, Mr. Allen McCormick.Mrs. McCormick called upon Holmes because the local police refused to investigate Mr. McCormick’s death, and she was absolutely certain it had not been an accident.  
  


Holmes secured enough evidence to prove that the head of the local police was being paid off by Dr. Westerly to ignore various misdeeds of practice and grotesque medical "experiments", and that the county policemen were too afraid of their superior to protest.With this evidence, myself, and two strapping young sergeants from Scotland Yard, Holmes was able to remove Inspector Downings from his post.All that remained was to remove Dr. Westerly from his position and his practice.  
  


I was eager to see the job done.I had been quite warm over the whole business from the first, feeling a proprietary interest in the safekeeping of my profession.I confess that if events had taken a slightly different turn, I might have gone at the fellow barehanded.  
  


As it happened, I was not to get the chance.  
  


I was first into Westerly’s sitting room that day, eagerness and temper making me incautious.“He is not here!”I called.  
  


“Perhaps he is in his office,” said Holmes, coming to stand at my side.  
  


The office was but three steps to my left.I took those steps and reached for the handle of the door.  
  


I do not remember exactly what happened next.At least a few seconds must have passed, for when I opened my eyes Holmes was leaning over me.His eyes were half-wild with fright, and I wondered what might have happened to put such a look on my self-contained friend’s face.  
  


I then realized I was lying on the floor.  
  


“Watson?”Holmes was speaking — had been speaking.“Can you hear me?My God, Watson, say something!”  
  


“Holmes.”My speech was very slurred — my tongue seemed stuck to the roof of my mouth.I tried again.“What?”A little better.   
  


“Can you move?” Holmes asked. The urgency had not left his voice.   
  


I turned my head a little to look at him.My thoughts were oddly sluggish and fuzzy.“What happened?”  
  


Holmes’ face went very still.“Do you not recall?”  
  


He seemed unbearably distressed.I could not stand to see him so, and I searched my memory.“Case.”That much was obvious.“Out of town.”That was the extent of my mental capacity.I tested the physical, and found my muscles responsive, but incredibly weak.“What happened?” I said again.I was beginning to understand my friend’s fear, if not the reason for it.  
  


Holmes recognized my upset, and sought to control his own.“You tried to open the door.Dr. Westerly’s office door.Do you remember?”  
  


Westerly.“Damned butcher,” I said.I seemed to have lost the filter between my mouth and my brain.  
  


It got a small smile from Holmes, at any rate.“Indeed.”The smile vanished, and his eyes glittered dangerously.“I shall have him on one count of murder and one count of attempted murder now, Watson.He will not get away with it.”  
  


I blinked a few times and attempted to prop myself on my elbows.I still felt very weak, and my right hand was stinging and burning, but the lightheadedness had passed.Holmes immediately pressed me back down.  
  


“Lie still, my dear fellow.I have sent the Scotland Yarders for a less vindictive doctor.”He cast a look over his shoulder.“I hope they are swifter than is their usual wont.”  
  


“Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”If I had to lie on the floor, I might as well get something out of it.  
  


Holmes looked me over with that sharp, penetrating manner of his.His eyes lingered on my hand.“You are badly burned.”  
  


“I had guessed that,” said I.“Either this doctor the sergeants are fetching will treat it, or I will see to it at home.”  
  


“As to the cause of this and your other injuries,” said he, lapsing into the somewhat cynical vein that was his refuge from the uncertainty of emotion, “the good doctor removed the wires from his fuse-box and attached them to his decorative copper doorknob.”His gaze went once more to my hand.“It had the predictable effect.”  
  


“Electric shock,” I murmured.That certainly explained things.   
  


“Yes.”Holmes stopped looking at my hand and went to stare fixedly at a point above my head.“If Westerly had been a little more clever — just a little, Watson — with his wiring, or you had taken a firmer grip on the doorknob—”  
  


“Best not to dwell on it,” I said gently.  
  


Holmes made a sharp sound in his throat.“Hah!I do not dwell, Doctor.I leave that for you.”His hard expression softened somewhat when his eyes returned to me.“Nevertheless.I would appreciate it if, from now on, you refrained from touching electrified objects.”  
  


“Believe me, I will do my best.”I went up on my elbows again, and Holmes did not stop me this time.“Where is Dr. Westerly?”  
  


“The cuckoo has flown the nest,”said Holmes.“As I found these on the desk in his sitting-room—” he produced a train schedule and what appeared to be a letter from his waistcoat pocket “—it is no great mystery as to where he will land.One of those sergeants is supposed to send a wire to Lestrade, so it will be their own fault if they do not catch him.And if they do not catch him, well.”That cold glint was back in his eyes.“I am quite certain that I can find him again.”  
  


A loud halloa! from outside announced the arrival of the sergeants, village doctor in tow, and the conversation was ended there.  
  


It has been almost a fortnight since that case, and I am just now writing it up.It turns out that second-degree burns do not make for pleasant pen-holding.  
  


Dr. Gabriel Westerly was discovered trying to catch a train to Edinburgh by the erstwhile Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and taken into custody.He has been found guilty of murder in the first degree.I am almost completely recovered from my brush with the forces of electricity, suffering only from a slowly healing hand.Holmes is very much the same as ever, and if he has been somewhat solicitous toward my health of late, I will not complain.I shall find myself being chivvied out the door on some freezing night, tired and supperless, soon enough.  
  


Perhaps I will begrudge the cold outdoors less than is my habit.After all, the alleys of London have no copper-plated doorknobs to surprise an unsuspecting passerby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research paper season starts and I immediately lose my update schedule and any writing quality I might have possessed. Alas.  
> This one's even more rushed that usual, so if any of you catch typos feel free to let me know! Proofreading has been abandoned in favor of searching for critical articles for papers.


	6. F — Fist

“You have, of course, heard the saying that doctors are the worst patients?”  
  


I did not respond.I had learned well that when my companion used that particular light and pleasant tone, he was truthfully attempting to draw me into an argument for which he had already mapped out the answers.  
  


Of course, Sherlock Holmes had never needed a responsive partner to carry on a conversation.“It is generalizing, of course, but I have found there is some truth in it.”  
  


This was too much, even for for my fairly well-developed sensibilities.“You are specializing,” I said, “as you are referring only to me.Besides, I am not doing anything to jeopardize my condition.”  
  


“You applied the cold compress — which, I might add, Mrs. Hudson was at some pains to procure — for only five minutes instead of the recommended quarter of an hour, and you are trying to read, thus putting unnecessary strain on your uninjured eye.”  
  


I looked up, finally, to glare at my friend.  
  


My one-eyed irritation had no more effect on him than the usual.Indeed, he fixed me with a stern look of his own.  
  


“You need to rest,” said he.“That novel is not of any great interest, anyhow.”  
  


“If you tell me what you’ve deduced of the conclusion from the cover,” I said, “I will be obliged to go out and buy a different novel, which I shall start from the beginning.”  
  


This ultimatum was answered with silence.I congratulated myself on gaining a moment’s peace, and resumed the somewhat difficult task of reading small print with just one working eye.Damn Walter Fixingham and his cement-block of a fist — it would be at least another day before I could open my left eye at all.  
  


The book was suddenly snatched from my hands.“Holmes!”I sat up, intending to protest the removal of what little entertainment I could manage at the moment, but my friend held up his hand.  
  


“You cannot spare the energy to read yourself, Watson, but you feel the need for mental stimulation.It is a need I understand.”He looked unlovingly at my chosen reading material.“Even if I cannot reason with the subject.No matter.”With that, he settled back, cleared his throat, and began to read from the very sentence I had left off: “‘Nevertheless, Captain, you possess an extreme rapidity of movement, which does not agree well with the power of electricity.’”  
  


I did not ask how Holmes knew where I had stopped reading.I did not insist he give me the book back to read myself, either.I had never known him to read aloud, save for letters and newspaper advertisements he wished me to hear, but he was quite proficient at the skill.He did not read too fast, nor too slow, and he did not stumble or overly exaggerate the text.I could think of several lecturers and politicians who could benefit from his example.  
  


I banished all thoughts of lecturers and politicians from my mind and mimicked my friend in leaning back in my chair. I knew a peace offering when I saw one, and knew how to reciprocate: I picked up the cold compress from where I had let it drop and settled it over my blackened eye.  
  


I thought I saw Holmes smile, but perhaps he was just amused by the fictional discussion taking place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing these fics is just *researches to be sure this song existed at that point in time* *researches to see what medical treatments were used on particular injuries at that point in time* *researches to see if this book had been published by that point in time* *researches t  
> Now I did learn in my research that the first English translation of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea was done in 1873, but was full of errors. It wasn't corrected until 1962, so the version Watson has here would be the messy one — Holmes would probably have something to say about that, if he knew or cared enough about this book to read it in the original French.


	7. G — Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEADS UP: this story touches on the death of minor. It's not explicit or detailed, but take care if you'd prefer to avoid it

Despite his imminently rational mind, my friend Sherlock Holmes was as susceptible to guilt as any man.Perhaps even more so, as his profession offered far more opportunities for regret than most.  
  


It had been a long time — years — since I had seen him in such straits as he was in now.  
  


“There was nothing you could have done,” I told him.  
  


“Spare me the platitudes, Doctor.”He did not snap.I would have preferred it a hundred times over if he would snap or snarl or say something harsh he did not truly mean.Anger meant his pain was leeching away, seeping out in cold words and abrupt manner.   
  


But he did not snap.His voice was low, steady, almost pleasant.It would have sounded calm to anyone else, but to me, who knew him so well, it was a sign of terrible mental anguish.  
  


“It is not a platitude,” I said.I did not truly hope to convince him of the truth in what I was saying.He knew the truth already.My aim was to rouse him, to pull some emotion past the stony facade.This festering sickness could not be moved without a bloodletting, and I was putting us both in the path of the knife. “You did everything you could."  
  


“I could have been faster.”His fingers drummed upon his knee and stopped suddenly, as if stilled by some crushing force.“I _should_ have been faster.If I had not wasted time waiting for a response to the advertisement—”  
  


“You said yourself that we needed Billings’ testimony before we could justify searching the house.”  
  


“Justify!”His hand spasmed on his knee.“What could possibly justify the delay I allowed to occur.What could possibly justify—” He was still again, save for his nervously twitching fingers.  
  


I knew what he had been about to say: What could possibly justify the death of Clarissa Knowles.  
  


I felt a resurgence of my own grief.There was anger, too, alongside it.  
  


She had been only fourteen years old.  
  


Holmes’ voice broke in upon my reverie.“Physician, heal thyself.”I looked up and saw him watching me.His smile was bitter and ironic.“We have done no good today.”  
  


“That is not true.”I leaned forward, willing him to understand.“We have served justice.Billings will hurt no one else, and he will pay for what he has already done.Her death was not in vain, Holmes.”  
  


“She need not have died at all!”  
  


There was the anger.Holmes turned away, color flushing high on his pale cheeks.   
  


He felt grief for the senseless death of a young girl — I knew this.I also knew that he dealt with grief in his own quiet way, and this was not that grief.What was truly hurting my friend was the guilt.He felt that he should have been quicker, better, stopped the tragedy before it ever happened.He felt, in some way, responsible for Clarissa’s death.  
  


I saw this sort of guilt frequently in my dual professions of doctor and soldier.I was no stranger to it myself.But I found solace in healing others from their pain, and I hoped — a little unaltruistically, perhaps — to heal myself along with my friend.  
  


I crossed the room to Holmes’ chair, crouching beside it.He did not look at me.  
  


“You are not to blame,” I said.“Not for any of it.Matthew Billings murdered Clarrisa Knowles, and you have brought him to justice.That is all anyone — including yourself — has the right to ask from you.”  
  


His shoulders slumped.“Ah, Watson.”He finally turned his face to mine, and his eyes were bright with the kind of affliction I have seen in very old men who have known too much of life.“When did you get so wise?”  
  


I shrugged, trying for a smile.“Time makes sages of all of us.”  
  


“That,” said he, “is patently untrue.I have met many old men who play the fool better than the greatest thespian.”  
  


His face was composed once again, and the only signs of his ordeal were a glint in his eyes and an air of exhaustion in his general bearing.  
  


He would be all right, as he always was, and the knowledge was an unspeakable relief to me.  
  


“Yes, well,” I said, recalling a few old fools of my own acquaintance.“If you are lucky, time makes a sage of you.”  
  


Holmes considered me for a moment.“Would you consider yourself a lucky man, Watson?”  
  


I sensed that my answer meant more to him than the light tone of the question suggested, so I took a moment to consider.“I think,” I said at last, “that I am far a far luckier man than I deserve.”  
  


“If ever a man deserved luck, Watson,” said Holmes, and his expression was very serious, “you do.If ever a man needed it, as well,” he added with his usual bland humour.  
  


“I will have to forfeit the title of man most in need in luck,” said I, matching his mood.“I believe that belongs to you.”  
  


“Perhaps, Watson, perhaps.”He settled back in his chair, watching me with something approaching his normal interest.“Then again, you do plan to grow old with me as a house-mate.”  
  


I got to my feet, wincing a little as my bad leg protested the crouch I had forced it to hold for the past several minutes.“That, my dear Holmes, will require divine intervention, not luck.”  
  


Holmes smiled a little.“We shall just have to pool our resources, then.With your direct line to the powers that be and my luck, we might just make it to retirement in one piece.”  
  


“I have already missed out on that one,” said I, rubbing my leg ruefully.  
  


We fell into one of our companionable silences, and it was nearly an hour before Holmes spoke again.I was reading my latest novel, and he was curled in his armchair.I had thought him asleep when I heard him speak.  
  


“Watson?”I hummed to let him know I had heard.“Thank you.”  
  


I lowered the novel.Holmes’ eyes were still closed, but the last of that awful tension had left his body.“You are very welcome,” said I.  
  


Holmes opened his eyes briefly to smile at me, then closed them again.I could tell from the slowing of his breaths and the limpness of his hands that he was truly asleep this time.  
  


I went back to my novel, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft and steady respiration of my friend.  
  


This day had not been a success, but we still had the next.Perhaps it would be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's maybe more hurt than comfort but it happens now and then.  
> Finished my draft of paper 1 — 2 more to go. I've been dabbling in original stuff when I'm not frantically writing about 16th century music theory so I had to knock this fic out in fairly short order, but I'm enjoying this series and am Determined to keep up with it


	8. H — Hypothermia

I could not remember ever being colder in my life.  
  


Sherlock Holmes was in even worse shape than I — though India had trained me for heat rather than cold, I was sturdier in build than my slender companion, and suffered a little less from the effects of a chill. Also, I had grabbed my coat before chasing a criminal from our sitting-room into the snowbound streets, though I had removed it nearly a quarter of an hour ago to wrap it around Holmes’ shoulders.  
  


My hands were shaking almost too badly to unlock the door of 221B, and Holmes was of no use at all, propped against me and very still. I was nearly sick with worry; he had stopped responding to me on our stumbling walk back through the alleys of London, and ten minutes later his skin held a pallor that was unhealthy even for him.  
  


The door suddenly swung open. I nearly fell, then nearly fell again trying to keep Holmes upright.  
  


“Dr. Watson! Mr. Holmes!”  
  


“Mrs. Hudson,” I said, gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering too much. “Please tell me the fire is lit in our rooms?”  
  


“Of course,” said she, recovering from her astonishment. “Can you get him upstairs by yourself? I will make tea and find extra blankets.”  
  


“You’re a saint, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, meaning it with every fibre of my being.  
  


“Rushing about on a night like this,” she muttered, bustling away. “Catch your deaths, you will!”  
  


I left our inestimable landlady to her mission and set myself to the task of dragging myself and Holmes up the stairs to our rooms. Holmes still seemed barely conscious, but he lifted his head a little and did what he could to help surmount this last obstacle.  
  


I nearly collapsed in the doorway, dizzy with fatigue, but I managed to push the few extra steps to the rug in front of the fire, where I finally allowed myself and my friend to drop. I took a few deep breaths and reached out a hand for Holmes’ wrist.  
  


My fingers were too numb to accurately gauge his pulse, and I was obliged to hold my hands out to the fire. I then had to wait for the painful tingling to subside before trying again, though in the interim I was able to judge that neither Holmes or I was especially damp, save for our snow-covered boots, and therefore it would be better for us to remain as we were than attempt to change clothes.  
  


I won the battle to remove my boots, then Holmes’s, and finally was able to take his pulse. It was somewhat sluggish, but not alarming. He grumbled incoherently and slumped against me — perhaps trying to leech off what little body heat I had left.  
  


Mrs. Hudson bustled in, carrying a tea-tray and the largest quilt I had ever seen in my life. “Are you very much wet, Doctor?”  
  


“No, thankfully,” said I. My teeth were not so inclined to chatter, so I added, “If you could pour the tea, I will see to myself and Holmes.”  
  


She clucked her tongue and unfolded the quilt, briskly tucking it around Holmes and me. “You really do need to stop going out in this weather. And without a coat!”  
  


“I brought my coat!” I protested, wrapping the ends of the blanket together to make a snug cocoon. “I gave it to Holmes because I thought he would freeze to death before we got home.”  
  


“Hardly to death, Doctor,” Holmes mumbled. His speech was slurred, and he couldn’t quite seem to open his eyes, but he shifted a little closer to me under the quilt. “Don’t ex—exaggerate.”  
  


“I am not exaggerating, Holmes.” The sternness in my voice was undercut, I fear, by my care in tucking the quilt more firmly around my friend’s shoulders. “Hypothermia is quite serious. You stopped responding to me for a few minutes.”  
  


“Mm. My s—sincerest apologies for scaring you, Watson.”  
  


A cup of tea was thrust under my nose. “Drink this,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I won’t have anyone freezing under my roof.”  
  


I took it gratefully. “Thank you. If you leave a cup here, I will be sure Holmes drinks it as soon as he is able.”  
  


She hmph’d. “I was going to bring sandwiches tonight, but I suppose I could take a moment to heat something up. You had better eat, though — both of you,” she added, with a gimlet stare at Holmes.  
  


“Yes, yes,” Holmes grumbled. “I will eat. I sh—shall never hear the end of it otherwise.”  
  


“You shall not,” said Mrs. Hudson. Her voice was tart, but she cast a worried look over her shoulder as she left.   
  


“She is genuinely concerned, Holmes,” I said. I took another sip of my tea. “As was I. You really must stop rushing about with no concern for your wellbeing. What if I had not been there? You would have frozen.”  
  


“Then I suppose, as usual, it is good you were there.” Holmes’ voice had lost some of the blurriness, but it was gaining exhaustion. His head slumped a little.  
  


I nudged him with my elbow. “You cannot sleep. You are still too cold. Do you think you can drink your tea?”  
  


The minor hesitation said far more to me than my friend’s actual answer. “Perhaps in a moment.”  
  


“Very well.” I tucked the blanket under my feet and sighed. Holmes’ body felt somewhat less frozen against mine, and my toes had begun that pins-and-needles sensation that told me, painfully, they would be fine. “I’m sorry we didn’t catch Simmons, Holmes.”  
  


“Hm? Oh, it’s no matter. He’s an absolute imbecile.” Holmes opened his eyes a little, staring at the fire with a rather distant expression. “No doubt he will try to go back to his townhouse to destroy the evidence instead of fleeing as he should. I shall send a telegram to Lestrade as soon as my fingers will hold a pen.”  
  


“You will do that, and you will also eat supper. Then you can go to bed if you wish.”  
  


Holmes sighed in a very put-upon manner. “Yes, Doctor. I trust you will follow your own advice?”  
  


“Of course,” said I. “I would have been in bed an hour ago if not for your nocturnal excursions.”  
  


“Justice waits for no man, and certainly not for bedtimes, Watson."  
  


“Justice may not sleep, but its agents certainly must.” I slumped further into our blanket-nest, feeling very warm and strangely content. “I might sleep here, if Mrs. Hudson is long with our supper.”  
  


“I might sleep here even if she is not,” said Holmes. “It is much warmer than my bedroom.”  
  


I sighed. “It will be hell on my back. I am too old for so hard a bed.”  
  


“Nonsense, Watson,” Holmes said, bumping his shoulder against mine. “You are a paragon of youth and strength. Did you not carry me through the frozen streets of London to the safety of our warm sitting-room?”  
  


“Only because I cannot afford this warm sitting-room by myself. Were it not for the rent I should be happy to let you sally forth into the frozen streets of London on your own.”  
  


“The price of rent,” said Holmes, with all the solemnity of a clergyman at his pulpit, “is perhaps the truest criminality in this great city.”  
  


I pretended to consider this carefully. “Does this make the landlady the arbiter of crime?”  
  


“Gentlemen!” Mrs. Hudson called, bursting into the room with a dinner-tray.  
  


Sherlock Holmes and I looked at each other, and burst out laughing.  
  


Mrs. Hudson, a wise and worldly woman, did not ask questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I had to do it to em  
> It's actually t-shirt weather where I am now, so maybe I should have saved this fic, but the alphabet waits for no man and I wasn't about to pass up a chance to write a classic.  
> Three more weeks of this semester! I'm ready to be done, but this was a good break.


	9. I — Influenza

“Watson!”The slammed-open door was a bombshell to my already frayed nerves.“Watson, I’ve found—”   
  


My friend’s sudden silence at the beginning of what was surely meant to be at least several minutes of excited rambling surprised me enough that I dragged myself round to see what had happened.   
  


He was standing by my bedside, looking down at me with something like astonishment.“You are ill,” said he.  
  


“A remarkable deduction,” said I.It was a weak attempt at humour, and made weaker by the truly awful and rasping sound of my voice.  
  


“Why did you not say anything?”  
  


“Holmes, it is—" I fumbled for my watch.  
  


“A quarter past six,” Holmes supplied.  
  


“A quarter past six,” I repeated.“I would not have been up yet had I been feeling well.Which I do not,” I added.  
  


“Obviously,” said he.His long, thin fingers were twisting and tapping at his side — restlessness, and possibly nervousness.“Do you need anything?” He offered.  
  


I blinked.“Is Mrs. Hudson awake?”  
  


“She left yesterday evening to visit friends in Devonshire.She will not be back until this afternoon.”  
  


“Oh,” I said, somewhat stupidly.“Right.”  
  


“Do you need anything?” He asked again.  
  


“No—no.”I slowly pushed myself upright, ignoring the immediate pounding headache that made itself known.“It is just the ‘flu, most likely.I shall be fine with rest.”  
  


Holmes eyed me uncertainly.“I will get you a glass of water.”He announced this as if he were planning to bring the Crown Jewels themselves to our home.  
  


“That would be lovely,” I said, “but leave it by my armchair.I will be down in a few moments.”  
  


It took many more moments than I had hoped, and at last I gave up on my coat and tie altogether.Holmes had not mentioned a client, and he was not currently engaged in anything more strenuous than his chemical work, so I did not think I would need to be entirely put together to appear in our sitting-room.  
  


The stairs were a much severer test of my concentration and energy than I had expected, but I made it to the sitting-room without any serious mishap.  
  


Holmes was poking the fire back to life, but spun round when he heard my step.“You really do look awful, Watson,” said he.“You could have just stayed in bed.”  
  


“Well, I am here now,” I said, collapsing into my armchair.“And I don’t fancy another go at those stairs.”  
  


Holmes only hmm’d in reply, but I heard the clink of a glass on the side-table.I looked up to see a glass of water at my elbow.“Thank you,” I said.  
  


“Think nothing of it.”Holmes looked me over again.“You are sure it is just influenza?”  
  


“I am a doctor,” I said.“I likely picked it up at the surgery.”  
  


“You do have a fondness for wallowing about in other people’s germs.”  
  


“I will not discuss this subject with a man who regularly tastes and smells whatever strange dust he has found on a murder victim’s carpet,” I said haughtily.  
  


That won me a laugh.“Touché, Doctor.I will not insult you further by asking if you know how best to combat this ailment.”  
  


“Physician, heal thyself.”  
  


“Indeed.”  
  


“I would, however, be obliged if you would refrain from scraping at your violin for at least forty-eight hours,” I said.“I have a truly awful headache.”  
  


“I can easily do that,” said he.“I suppose this means your pistol is also off-limits.”  
  


“That is always off limits,” I said, slouching deeper into my chair.“You simply ignore the rule.”  
  


He smiled.“One has to keep their hand in somehow.”  
  


“You have heard my opinion on the wall being used as target-practice many times, and I have given up hope that I shall ever change your mind.”I rubbed at my eyes.“If you don’t mind, I think I will try to sleep a little.”  
  


“Not in the least.Would you care to rest on the settee?”There was a moment while we both looked at the piles of books and papers on that overworked piece of furniture.“I can move my manuscripts.”  
  


“Do not trouble yourself,” said I.“I have had more uncomfortable beds in the army.And,”I added, “on your cases.”  
  


“Yes, I have heard your dislike of Dr. Roylott’s shell house almost as much as your dislike of indoor target-practice.”Holmes drew the blinds a little, keeping the worst of the early morning sun from stabbing at my overwrought senses.“Sleep, my dear fellow.This experiment is a quiet one, and will not keep you up.”  
  


“Mm.Holmes?”  
  


He paused beside the table with his equipment.“Yes?”

  
“What was it you were going to tell me earlier?”  
  


“It will keep.”His expression was some odd mix of fond and aggravated.“ _Sleep,_ Watson.You need it.”  
  


“Usually do,” I mumbled.“Running after you.”  
  


I thought I heard him laugh, but I was asleep before I could know for certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two concerts next week, God help me.  
> Keeping up with this for now! I finished my Sherlock Holmes reread and have started on a Father Brown reread. Detective fiction only, apparently.


	10. J — Jaw

A loud and sudden noise sent my hand jerking across the page of my notebook.I looked at the ink smearing my once-neat manuscript and willed myself to remain calm.  
  


I have said before that I consider myself among the most long-suffering of mortals, but the three days following the arrest of the Mill Street Forger were a true test of this fortitude.  
  


It was the second day of this purgatory, and I looked up from my ruined draft to see Holmes glaring at me.His hand was curled in a fist on the table — he must have struck it to make the sound that so surprised me.His expression held the frustration which, I had learned about twelve hours ago, meant he had tried to get my attention by clearing his throat or some other more socially acceptable means and only resorted to extreme means out of aggravation and helplessness.  
  


My conscious twinged a little when I realized how deeply distracted I had been when my friend was so in need of companionship and medical supervision.I then recalled the amount of crumpled paper that had been tossed at my head in the last two days and felt less guilty.  
  


“What is it, Holmes?”  
  


He gestured impatiently at his chemistry equipment and started scribbling furiously in one of his many notebooks.  
  


I stifled a sigh and got to my feet, crossing the sitting-room to where Holmes sat at the table.Despite my annoyance, I looked Holmes over with a physician’s eye as I took a seat at his side.His left foot was on the floor, and though it was not bearing any weight, his sprained ankle was clearly not causing him serious pain.More to the current point, his jaw did not appear quite so swollen from the dislocation it had suffered at the hands of a hired thug, and I fervently hoped it would be well enough for him to speak again in a day or two, if only for our sanities.  
  


Holmes pushed the paper my way.I looked at the quick, sharp hand on the paper and read, _Blood.  
  
_

“Holmes,” I said, “I cannot read your mind.”These past days had established that, certainly.“Please give me some context.”  
  


He exhaled sharply through his nose, but took the paper and wrote a few more lines before shoving it back. _Blood on Charles Sanderson’s jacket belongs to pig, not human.Sanderson’s wife said he had meant to visit the butcher that afternoon on his errands, but did not know if he made it.Whether he did or not, the butcher or his knives were in very close contact with Mr. Sanderson before his death.  
  
_

I looked at this extraordinary story scrawled on a scrap of notebook paper.“Really?”  
  


Holmes nodded emphatically.He winced a little, then scowled at my obvious flash of concern.  
  


“Do not look at me like that,” I said sternly.“You’d be worse off if I hadn’t set your jaw when I did.”  
  


We sat in silence for a moment.The single word in the corner of the page reminded me, suddenly and absurdly, of something I’d heard from one of my patients the other day.“Have you heard of this new game children are doing?”  
  


Holmes’ expression said that I should be ashamed for even supposing he knew what was popular with children.  
  


“Yes, fine.You’d like it, I think — it’s suitably morbid.”A flash of interest.“Hand me your notebook.”  
  


He eyed me for a moment, then shrugged whimsically and offered me his notebook and, preemptively, his pencil.  
  


“It’s called hangman,” I said.“You pick a word, but you do not tell the other player.”I made seven little lines at the bottom of the page.“He must guess what the word is letter by letter.If he guesses a letter correctly, you write it in the space to which it belongs.If he guesses wrongly—”I drew a little stick gallows.“You draw a head, then a body, arms, and legs.If the man is hanged before he guesses the word, he loses.”  
  


Holmes stared at me.  
  


Feeling a little ridiculous, I handed back the notebook and pencil.“It just came into my head.”

  
Holmes continued to scrutinize me, then turned to the paper.After a moment, he picked up the pencil and wrote the word _butcher_ over my lines. _Elementary,_ he wrote underneath.  
  


“You really do take the fun out of things sometimes,” said I.  
  


He smiled.Eight new lines were etched overtop of my old ones, and he angled the notebook toward me that I might see more clearly.  
  


“E,” I said promptly.I had not gone through endless lectures on secret ciphers during the case of the Dancing Men for nothing.  
  


It was the second letter.  
  


Two minutes later, I had correctly guessed that the word was _pedantic_ and treated Holmes to a lecture of my own on which of us was truly the pedantic one.  
  


Twenty minutes later, we had a truly impressive argument on which word categories were acceptable for use.I said that if Holmes was allowed to use French chemistry terms, I should be permitted to use the names of popular music-hall artists.We disengaged on those terms and I fancied I’d won, though to be fair to my opponent, he was forced to write all his debate points longhand.  
  


Two hours later, we had filled half of Holmes’ notebook with hanged and half-hanged men and increasingly random words, and Holmes had finally gotten distracted by his microscope.  
  


I quietly tidied the loose paper and went back to my desk.I turned a fresh page in my own notebook and carefully wrote a title — “The Butcher’s Knives.”  
  


I would have to ask Holmes for particulars when his jaw healed properly, but I could get a head start while he was occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm two days from the end of this semester (minus exams) and I've lost the ability to string a sentence together.  
> I hit the internet again and learned that at least some version of this game was actually in a book from the 1890s, so while there's a chance that Watson would have known a variation, I decided it was possible enough for him to know hangman proper, and the concept was too good to pass up.


	11. K — Karma

“You must admit, it is rather funny.”  
  


“I admit nothing.”  
  


I shifted a little, trying to stretch my legs without kicking my companion.I thought my eyes had adjusted to the dark, but there was simply not enough light to see anything at all.“You accused Birmingham of hiding the jewels in a cupboard, and he did.Just not this cupboard.”  
  


“Yes, Watson, I had gathered that.”   
  


“If you hadn’t made such an accusation, he might not have been in such a hurry to lead us to this cupboard and lock us inside.”  
  


“I had gathered that, too.”I heard a rustle as Holmes moved.He was not so careful; his elbow caught me in the ribs.“My apologies.”  
  


“No need,” I said. "How is your ankle?"  
  


"Better for having my weight off it, but it will likely need to be wrapped."  
  


I nodded, then remembered that he could not see me. “Understood. Have you any idea how we’re going to get out of here?”  
  


“The door is the obvious way, but it has a deadbolt.It would be difficult to kick down, and without the ability to see where we are kicking I should not like to try.” He shifted again. "Even without this ankle."  
  


“Why would Birmingham need a deadbolt on a closet?” I asked.  
  


A moment of silence.“That,” Holmes said, “is a very excellent question, Watson.We shall have to examine this room further once we have a light.”  
  


I sighed. “Birmingham used my last match when I offered him a cigarette.”  
  


“And I did not think to bring mine at all,” Holmes said ruefully.  
  


“We are fools, and Birmingham is a blaggard.”  
  


“Perhaps, but we will make no progress sitting here.”A scuffle as my friend got to his feet.“Well!If the lock will not do, the hinges must.”   
  


Holmes was quiet long enough after this announcement that I began to wonder if he had truly meant anything by it at all.Before I could question him, he gave a sudden cry of delight.  
  


“Pins, Watson!They are held in by pins!”  
  


I got to my feet.“Can you push them out?”  
  


“I believe so, with your assistance.”  
  


“I am at your disposal.”  
  


“Excellent.Set your shoulder against the door, and when I give the word, push as hard as you can.”  
  


I did as he asked.My career as a soldier had been short and undistinguished, but I still thrilled to the call of marching orders and action, and Sherlock Holmes was a man well acquainted with both.  
  


“Now!”  
  


I set my feet and shoved at the door with all my strength.I did not know how long I would be able to keep the pressure on, but my companion was a quick worker.  
  


“Well done, Watson; you may stop.”  
  


I stepped back.“Have you got it?”  
  


“Pin one of two,” said Holmes, and I did not need to see his face to know that he was pleased.“Are you up to one more push?”  
  


It happened that I was up to two more pushes, and both of them needed — Holmes didn’t manage to grasp the pin on the first try, but on the second he succeeded in moments.  
  


I confess that kicking down a door is always tremendously exciting, and far more fun than it has any right to be.  
  


Holmes seemed to share my somewhat illicit delight — despite his obvious limp, he was chuckling quietly to himself and casting about in the hall.   
  


“A light, Watson!” He announced, appearing with a lantern.  
  


“Rather too late, I’m afraid.  
  


“Perhaps.It is said, though, that a thing is better late than—”  
  


“—never?” I offered, when my friend made no effort to finish his sentence.  
  


He made no effort to respond to me, either.His eyes were fixed on the back wall of our temporary prison, and I saw in them the near-fanatical glint he only got when he was hot upon the trail.  
  


“What?”  
  


“Watson.”He caught my elbow and dragged me back into the cupboard.“Look!”  
  


I did.I saw nothing at first, but after a moment I realized what had caught the keener senses of my companion.“This patch of wall — it has been recently re-plastered.”  
  


“It has.”Holmes lifted the lantern, lighting the scene even more.“Doctor, how would you feel about testing the structural integrity of this wall?”

  
I felt, in fact, very good about it.  
  


“Very poor workmanship,”I said, after putting the heel of my boot through the plaster.  
  


“Indeed,” said Holmes. He bent to look at our latest act of minor property destruction.“Let us see what this craftsman valued enough to damage his own house like this.”  
  


The flickering light of the lantern fractured and scattered as it caught the facets of a dozen gemstones, the smallest of which was hardly less wide than my thumb.We stood silent for a moment, just looking.  
  


Holmes spoke first.  
  


“Well, Watson,” said he.“It appears it was this cupboard after all.”  
  


“I would suggest fate of some sort, if you believed in such things.”  
  


“You believe in them less than I, I think.”  
  


“I think,” I said, looking at the glittering pile before us, “that I might make an exception in this case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might actually win for "writing I've spent the least amount of time on in my entire life", so that's something. Is the hurt/comfort theme pretty background? Yes. Does it still exist? Yes. Am I counting it? Absolutely.  
> In other news I'm careening through exam week, so everything else has been sacrificed at the altar of "not blowing it right at the end," and that includes this fic I would much rather have worked on instead. All that said! Hopefully the agonizing editing process one of my professors is forcing upon me will help me write better Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, which is obviously the important thing here.


	12. L — Lungs

“How’s your breathing?”  
  


Holmes started to shrug, then thought better of it.“I am capable.”  
  


I surveyed the ugly purple bruises splashed across the pale skin of his ribcage.“You look like you were kicked by a horse.Multiple horses,” I amended.  
  


“I must admit to feeling something of the same.”His expression was some combination of annoyed and rueful.  
  


“Mm.”I sat across from Holmes and scooted the stool closer.“Let me examine it — I want to be sure nothing is fractured.”  
  


Holmes started to cross his arms, winced, and let them drop to his sides.“I think I would know if something was fractured, Doctor.”  
  


“And you might be writing it off as nothing serious,” said I.“Move, Holmes.”  
  


He saw that I was not to be dissuaded by any displeasure on his part, and acquiesced with put-upon grace.  
  


“Broken ribs are serious.”I felt gently along his chest, searching for any signs of serious damage.“It might not be much now, but if left untreated they could shift and puncture a lung.”  
  


“I am familiar with the medical procedure.”Holmes’ voice was somewhat strained, but I was prodding at an especially hideous bruise just over his seventh rib.  
  


I spread my hands to cover as much of his ribcage as I could.“Breathe in,” I ordered.“Slowly.”  
  


Holmes inhaled, obediently slow and steady.I saw a muscle in his jaw tic as something pained him.“Where did you feel that?” I asked, knowing he would catch my meaning.  
  


Holmes huffed out through his nose.“Where didn’t I feel it would be a shorter list.”  
  


I affected an innocent tone.“Your legs?”  
  


“Don’t be obtuse, Watson, it doesn’t suit you.”  
  


“That’s a nice change from the usual," I said without real heat.I made my touch even lighter.“Breathe.”  
  


Holmes managed to fill his lungs fully this time, though he did wince twice.“Are you satisfied?”He asked.  
  


“I am.”I took my hands away and allowed him to reach for his shirt.“I don’t feel anything that needs wrapped, but I would like to keep an eye on that bruising to be sure it doesn’t swell.And if you have _any_ difficulty breathing, or exertion tires you more than usual—”  
  


“I will let you know, Watson, I promise.”Holmes had finished with his shirt, but apparently decided against resuming his waistcoat or collar.“It will take more than some bruises to get the better of me.”  
  


“That bastard seemed determined to get the better of you,” said I.“He slammed you against the table at least three times.”  
  


“And I threw him over my shoulder and gave him a fractured skull,” said he, somewhat testily, “so we are even, I think.”  
  


“I wish you could have seen Lestrade’s face,” I said.The memory brought a rather irreverent smile to my own face.“I don’t know what surprised him more — Wilson tossing you about like a rag doll, or you setting Wilson on the ground neatly as if you’d rehearsed it.I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.”  
  


“I’m certainly glad they didn’t,” Holmes said, favoring me with an impish smile as he walked, a little gingerly, to his room.“Lestrade already has enough trouble seeing the obvious, and you have quite enough on your hands with me as a patient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am TWO DAYS from being done with exams......praise be.  
> I almost put this under R for Ribs but opted not to because I have something else going on for R. Good times!


	13. M — Muscle

I would not call my old war-wound a constant reminder of a rather unfortunate time in my life, but it was an occasional reminder, at least.

When the weather was bad like this, the ache and random muscle twinges were beastly.

“Damn!” My knee hit the floor as my leg gave beneath me. That pain was sharper, and did not improve my outlook.

“Watson?” Sherlock Holmes poked his head over the back of his armchair. He had been occupying himself this cold, wet November morning with some old manuscripts, and I had scarcely heard from him since he gathered his materials and disappeared into the seventeenth century.

“It’s nothing.” I picked up my book, which I had dropped and had been attempting to recover when my leg betrayed me. “My leg.”

Holmes’ face disappeared, then his entire upper body came into view as he stood. “It is either your leg or nothing, my dear fellow, and on the evidence so far I am prepared to assume the former.”

“An excellent piece of deductive reasoning,” I grumbled. I was still on the floor, as I was not yet prepared to risk worse pain in the object of regaining my chair.

“Nonsense,” said he. “Any fool could reach that conclusion.” His fingers tapped a stutter-stop rhythm on the side table. “Shall I send down to Mrs. Hudson for a compress?”

“No,” I said. “I will just sit a little closer to the fire. Heat will be enough.” This was, of course, assuming that I could will myself to stand, maneuver my chair, and reseat myself. 

Well. I had the will. I pushed myself up on my good leg, gritting my teeth as the bad made its displeasure known.

Strong hands were on my arms a moment later, holding me steady and keeping me still. “Watson, do not make it worse. Let me help.”

I bit back my instinctive and shamefully churlish response — brought on mostly by pain and frustration, I think, but reprehensible nonetheless — and offered a more neutral “If you will.”

“Of course I will.” Holmes caught the leg of my chair with his foot and dragged it into reach.

I winced a little at the scraping sound this produced. “Mrs. Hudson will not appreciate the scratch on her floor,” said I. “She has still not forgiven you for what happened to the carpet that was meant to protect it from this sort of thing.”

“I have promised to replace it,” said Holmes, apparently occupied with judging the distance between my chair and the fire. “I just need to find the right sort.”

“I think she would take any sort at this point.”

“Nonsense, Watson. Mrs. Hudson is a landlady of some taste and refinement.”

Before I could formulate a response to this assertion, I was half-flung into my newly-appointed seat. My leg gave one last ferocious complaint and, with my weight finally off the offended muscle, quieted to a manageable ache.

Holmes stood over me, looking very pleased with himself. “Is that acceptable?”

I decided not to look the gift horse in the mouth. “More than. Would you mind handing me my pipe? It’s over on the table.” I went all in and added, “And the book I dropped?”

Holmes willingly took up my pipe, but frowned at the book.

“I am not in the mood for a discussion on my literary tastes,” I said with all the authority I could muster. “I have heard enough of your thoughts on that subject for two lifetimes.”

“And you will no doubt hear more,” said he, and his tone was joking though we both knew he was serious. “But I will spare you today.”

“Thank God,” I muttered. I opened the yellow-backed novel to where I had left off, determined to bury myself in it and escape dreary weather and old war-wounds alike. “Go and solve the mysteries of the old days.”

Holmes snorted. “There are no mysteries in those pages, and they are still of more interest than your book.”

I made a sharp noise in my throat. “You promised.”

“I did.” Holmes held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “And I shall keep to my word.” He gave me a rather amused look as he retreated to his makeshift history cave. “Enjoy your utterly plotless novel, Watson.”

“And you enjoy your entirely boring manuscripts, Holmes.”

We settled into an amicable and understanding silence, content with our respective low-brow entertainments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I POSTED THE SAME THING TWICE INITIALLY WELL DONE ME  
> thank you K for letting me know! It has been a Week but I wrote this up bc I am determined to keep up with my schedule


	14. N — Nosebleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEADS UP: as the title suggests, fair amount of blood talk in this one. There's nothing graphic, but if blood isn't your thing you might want to take care

“Is it any better?”

A noncommittal grunt was the only answer I received, and I hastily stifled a smile. 

Sherlock Holmes noticed, of course. “I fail to see what’s so amusing, Watson,” he said thickly.

“No, I suppose not.” I nudged his hand aside to get a look at his ailment. “It seems to have slowed,” said I, “but keep your head back for a bit longer.”

“I can hardly breathe through my nose,” he complained, replacing the now-stained cloth I had supplied.

“Do not attempt to clear it,” I said sternly. “You will only start it bleeding again, and could make it worse.”

“Have you any idea what caused it?” He was watching me from the corner of his eye, head tipped back over the chair.

“Well, I can’t be sure,” I said, “but it might be the fumes from that experiment you were working on when I left to pick up some tobacco. The atmosphere was almost intolerable when I returned, and you practically had your head down the beaker.”

“You exaggerate,” he muttered. “And I meant to open a window.”

“You usually do.” I pushed at his hand again, careful not to jostle. “I think it’s stopped. Do you taste blood at all?”

“A little, but I think—” he ran his tongue over his lips “—it is only what got on my mouth.”

“That’s fine. If it was bleeding into your throat it would be more serious, but you seem to have avoided that. If you taste blood at any point, you need to tell me.”

Holmes sighed a little. “Very well. Any other instructions?”

“You need to keep your head up above the level of your heart for a few hours — do not lie down, and do not bend over noxious experiments.” I ignored his irritated look and continued. “Do not bump your nose, and do not attempt to clear it out right now. I’m sure it’s annoying, but if it bleeds again it will only be worse.”

“I can handle a little annoyance, Doctor.”

“Finally, just let me know if it bleeds again.”

“I doubt I will have much choice,” said he, getting to his feet. “I assume you will be keeping an eye on me for the rest of the afternoon whether I like it or not.”

“You assume correctly,” I said. “I won’t have you bleeding all over Mrs. Hudson’s carpet.”

“Heaven forbid.” Holmes crossed the room to his armchair and sat down. “I thought she was going to throw me out in the street after the last incident.”

“I was certain of it, and just as certain that I would be evicted alongside you.” I closed the window — it was a chilly October afternoon and the fumes had dissipated. 

“You, my dear fellow? It was not your surprisingly flammable overcoat.”

“I was an accessory, apparently.”

Holmes hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps.” He reached for the paper and hesitated. “Will looking down to read restart the bleeding?”

“It shouldn’t,” said I. “Just keep your head level if you can.”

With a decisive rattle of paper, Holmes disappeared behind the agony column.

I reached for my pipe and hesitated. Perhaps I could wait a few more minutes. 

No need to have a constantly thick atmosphere in our rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing these up last minute and fully expecting my schedule to disintegrate after Christmas whoops  
> So far so good though


	15. O — Occupational Hazards

It was a ridiculous way to be injured.

Obviously, a slip with a scalpel was no laughing matter, but contrasting this minor slice to my thumb with the ways I had been wounded in the past was ironic, if nothing else.

Sherlock Holmes seemed to find it positively hilarious.

He was not laughing, of course, and had actually been quite concerned when I cursed and dropped the scalpel. When he saw that I was not seriously hurt, however, he simply loitered nearby to see what amusement could be earned at my expense.

I was trying very hard not to oblige.

“Really, Holmes,” said I. “It is a cut.” I had already cleaned it, and was wrapping it in a scrap of bandage.

“Indeed it is.” Holmes knocked ash off his cigarette. “It’s not like you to be so clumsy, Watson.”

“Perhaps if I had not been kept up late for the past three nights, I would be up to my usual standards.” I inspected my bandage job. It did not look as if it was going to bleed through, but I would have to keep an eye on it nonetheless.

“Criminals do not run on schedules — less so if they are wealthy criminals in no hurry.” Holmes flicked his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “I believe I have said something of the sort before.”

“Multiple times,” I said. “I have been present for most of them.” I looked at the blood spotting our table and sighed.

“It is no matter,” said Holmes, divining my thoughts as he so often did. “Just scrub it a little and you will hardly notice.”

“Hardly,” I repeated. “How could I, with all the bleeding you do on this table?” I took a rag and began trying to remove the stains. “Whatever unlucky man rents these rooms after us will think we were killers of some sort.”

Holmes chuckled. “I should like to be here for that, I think.”

“Not with your constant threats of retirement, you shouldn’t.” I threw the rag at him, childishly. He caught it easily. “Besides, I will just tell them that I am a doctor and performed a few minor surgeries at this table. They might believe it.”

Holmes was inspecting the rag. I had a suspicion that he was going to try and run some test on the drops of my blood he could get from it. “Why wouldn’t they?” He asked. He folded the rag neatly and laid it on the arm of his chair. “It is the truth, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short thing because I've been crazy busy of late, but I'm gonna keep this schedule going as long as I can


	16. P — Pedestrian Injury

It happened so quickly that even now, with several days to consider the events, I am not entirely sure what happened.

One moment I was walking away from the cab; the next, I was lying on the ground, somewhat dazed and with a sharp pain in my shoulder.

“Watson!” Holmes was leaning over me, face twisted with some odd combination of anxiety and fury. He looked up over my head. “Someone stop that cab!”

I winced. My shoulder was still the most pressing issue, but a headache was making itself known as I lay in the street. “Holmes—”

“Sorry, sorry.” My friend was trying to divide his attention between me and the cab, which was rapidly rattling away. I could see him quivering faintly with the desire to run down his quarry, but he would not leave my side.

Touched by this show of devotion, I nonetheless understood what he needed to do. “Go after him,” I said.

Holmes looked at the cab, then back at me. “Watson—”

“I am not seriously hurt,” I said. I propped myself on my uninjured arm and managed to sit up. “And I would feel better if you could bring the fellow that hit me to justice.”

Holmes smiled, sharp and cold. “Rest assured, Doctor, I can accomplish that.” And he was gone.

I groaned a little and rubbed my head.

“I say, are you all right?”

A few passers-by had gathered at the edge of the street, and one fellow, a short, sturdy man of middle-age, was coming toward me.

“I will be,” said I. “I believe the cab clipped my shoulder, but I am still not sure.”

“I can’t say I saw what happened,” the man admitted. “I saw you and your associate getting out of the cab, and just like that you were on the ground.” He looked down the street. “Though I daresay you can ask the driver what he meant by all this. He might have some answers.”

He pointed, and I saw Holmes coming back up the street, gripping a surly-looking young man by the collar. “Halloa, Watson! He gave me a chase, but I managed to run him to ground. I’ve sent a paper-boy for the police.” He shook his prisoner a little. “Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself? Why did you attempt to attack Watson? I saw how you turned the horse, and I can only say that it is most fortunate that you did not succeed in crushing him."

The man’s expression became even more sullen. “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he said.

A flush appeared on my friend’s cheeks. “Have you! No matter. I will know soon enough, and it might go ill for you when I do.” Holmes passed the driver to my heavyset companion and crouched beside me. “How are you feeling, Watson?”

“Like I was run over by a cab.”

“Nonsense,” said he. “You were barely struck.” The sharp scrutiny with which he was watching me gave lie to his blithe words, and I could see that he was still quite concerned.

“It’s nothing, Holmes,” I assured him. “A badly bruised shoulder, I believe, and a bump where my head struck the cobbles. A day of quiet and rest and I shall be good as new.”

Holmes considered me a moment longer, and his mouth twitched into the briefest of smiles. “I suppose I will bow to your superior medical knowledge.”

“If only you would do the same when you are injured,” I grumbled.

“Ah, but I am the expert on Sherlock Holmes, so in those instances I am the wiser.”

“ _You_ are Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes and I looked up. The cab-driver’s face had gone as red as the kerchief sticking out of his breast-pocket.

“I am,” said Holmes. “Does this somehow change things for you?”

The man swore fervently.

“No! Well, yes. It’s just—” He glared at me, as if this was somehow my fault. “I thought _he_ was Sherlock Holmes.”

There was a long moment of silence as we all digested this fact.

“Well,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I suppose this answers a few questions.” He turned to me. “Once again, Watson, you have thrown yourself in the path of the bullet for my sake.”

“Unwittingly, this time.” I tried to brush some grit off my coat, but it was thoroughly embedded in the weave. 

“Perhaps.” My friend looked up at the driver. “And perhaps next time, you will consider paying more attention to Watson’s descriptions of us in his little publications. It would be invaluable information for your hit-and-runs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I decide to fall behind on my update schedule I go big or go home. In my defense, music theory is killing me.  
> Still! Felt very good to write for these character again, even if I was in a hustle for this chapter, and I hope to have shorter delays!


	17. Q — Quackery

The quarter of an hour’s walk which Sherlock Holmes and I were obliged to make on our way back from the local police station was quite long enough for me to work myself into such a state of indignation I feared I might never come back from it.

“The man is a charlatan,” I fumed. “And you are laughing at me.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows, affecting an innocent expression, but I could see the glint in his eyes and the quirk in his lips that signaled what would be raucous hilarity in any other man. “I, my dear fellow? Certainly not.” He unlocked the door of our rooms and removed his coat.

“You certainly are.”

“Watson,” said he, in his most soothing tones, “I am entirely on your side. You have said that the man is a knave, a fraud, a cheat, and a charlatan, and I have agreed with you on all of them.”

I was in no mood to be soothed. “And yet you laugh at me!”

“Nonsense! I merely point out that the slightly less than honourable Dr. Huxtely—”

“For heaven’s sakes, Holmes!” I was shouting now, but my companion’s dismissive manner and awarding of the title _doctor_ to Adrian Huxtely was more than I could stand. “The man could have killed you!”

Holmes had lost his teasing air. “It was an accident, Watson, and nothing came of it. You make too much a trifle.”

“Would you be so calm if our positions had been reversed?” His expression did not change, but I caught a tension in his jaw. “And besides,” I said, suddenly tired and somewhat sullen about the whole thing, “you are always telling me there is nothing so important as trifles.”

“Well,” said Holmes, testing the waters with a cautious bantering stroke, “I am glad you finally took my advice, even under the circumstances.” He settled into his armchair. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Doctor. He was not the killer.”

“He almost was.” I threw myself into my own armchair and began aggressively cleaning my pipe. “And the worst part of it is that he didn’t mean anything by it, and neither did you. Because of your little fainting charade — which I am getting very tired of, by the way — Huxtely felt obliged to come to your aid, for which I cannot fault him, with a glass of turpentine, for which I can.”

“I wasn’t actually going to drink it, Watson.”

“That’s not the point!” I took a deep breath, and forced myself to calm down. I would never make myself understood unless I was level-headed enough to explain what had so upset me. “The point, Holmes, is that Huxtely, and a whole class of men like him, go through life with a sort of well-meaning ignorance that does little harm until they are placed in a position where their general foolishness causes real, lasting harm to people who trust them to know what they are doing.”

Holmes was watching me very closely. “Like a doctor.”

“Yes.” I rubbed at my leg, which had taken to aching in sympathy with my head. “Or a soldier, or a government worker, or any number of things.”

Holmes made a thoughtful noise. “I see your upset, Watson.” He offered me a rueful smile. “I’ve been rather caught up in utterly malicious men of late — it’s good to be reminded, now and then, that there are many ways to cause damage.”

“I am at your service, as always.” I filled my pipe and lit it. “At least the police removed Huxtely from, ah, practice.”

“Indeed.” Holmes’ expression went distinctly sly. “And I have reason to believe that the license he was using might not have been entirely legitimate.”

I sat up, indignant all over again. “What? You mean it was false?”

“Such surprise from the man who himself called Huxtely a fraud!”

“Holmes.”

“The license was real enough, but the circumstances under which Huxtely obtained it were, shall we say, less than the standard circumstances for a practicing physician.”

I slumped back in my chair. “The villain,” I grumbled. “I knew it.”

“Not in so many words,” said Holmes, clearly determined to have his fun, “but your instincts were, as always, impeccable.”

I did not dignify the remark with an answer. Instead, I asked, “Have you turned the case over to the police?”

Holmes lit his own pipe and puffed meditatively on it for a moment. “No.”

“Surely not Scotland Yard!”

Holmes scoffed. “Of course not. Lestrade would never let me hear the end of it. I thought you and I might have a look into it first.”

The thought of apprehending a medical cheat was enough to reinvigorate my sagging moral. “I should like nothing more.”

Holmes smiled. “I thought so. And, after all, who better than us to take on this challenge? You have a knowledge of the medical world and many excellent contacts, and I—” he paused, considering the smoke rising from his pipe. “Well, I am always in need of a challenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels more like Almost hurt/comfort than Actual hurt/comfort but the emotional aspect is still here and also it's the letter Q so I'm going to allow it.  
> Despite my most careful internet research, I was unable to discover when people stopped drinking turpentine for medical purposes so for the sake of this story just assume it was before whenever this takes place. My other option was arsenic, but I'm pretty sure people were still super into that through part of the 20th century.  
> I'm in the middle of midterms but ! it's warming up here and it's good to come back to this series


	18. R — Revenge

“Holmes, my God—” I dropped to my knees, ignoring the dirt and grime of the alley. The knees of my trousers almost immediately became damp, and I prayed it was water or sewage.

I did not believe it was water or sewage.

“Watson,” my friend mumbled. His voice was slurred, quite unlike his usual masterful speech, and he did not open his eyes. “Don’t look so scared.”

“You aren’t even looking at me,” I said. I reached for him, feeling as gently as possible along his back.

He made a soft gasp, and tried immediately to disguise it with a grunt. “I don’t have to. It is not—” he coughed wetly. “It is not as bad as it looks.”

“It is too dark to see,” said I. Lestrade had promised he would be here soon. I could only hope that was so, because I would not leave Holmes.

“Exactly.” 

“Who did this to you?” I drew my hands away to rest them on my knees. My hands were damp now, too. I knew it was not water. 

Holmes finally opened one eye to look at me, the grey of the iris washed almost transparent by the dim light of the fog-shrouded moon. “Do you remember Mr. Allen Burgess?”

“The jeweler? Holmes, you said there was nothing remarkable about his case!”

“There isn’t.” Another cough. “Violence is not remarkable, Watson, no matter how shocking.”

My fists clenched in my lap. “Did Burgess do this?” If he had done this horrible deed—

“Steady, Doctor.” Holmes’ eyes were closed again, but his expression seemed less pinched. It did not reassure me. “It was not Burgess. His assistant.”

“His assistant?” I needed him to keep talking. If he was talking, he was conscious and alive. “Why?”

“Stealing.” His voice was weaker now. “A mistress. She does not love him; she is only—” he shivered all over; I cursed myself for a fool and removed my coat, wrapping it around him as closely as I dared. “Thank you. She is only using him for money.”

“You told him this?” Blunt honesty would be his death, I thought, then banished the notion.

“Of course. It was the only way—I could find out where he’d hidden the jewels.”

This connection did not make much sense to me, but I would ask later. Later, when my friend was recovered, and we were sitting at home with a glass of port in front of the fire. “Stay awake, Holmes,” I said, gripping his cold hand between both of mine.

“Horses,” he murmured.

“What?” Delirium, God no—

“A cab.” His fingers spasmed in mine. “You called Lestrade.”

Straining a little, I caught what his keener ears had already heard — the clop of horse hooves and clatter of cab wheels. Help was on the way. “Just a little longer,” I said. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“I will try,” said he. 

The cab came to a stop, and I heard scuffling on the street outside. “Lestrade!” I called.

“Dr. Watson?”

“Here!” I cried. “In the side-street!”

I heard the patter of booted feet running toward us — Lestrade and at least one constable — and clutched Holmes’ hand a little tighter. I felt him squeeze back, and despite the dark and the grime and the damp I could still feel seeping into my trouser knees, I had a spark of bright hope flutter in my chest.

We would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am BACK on my update schedule. It's probably just this one time, but still.  
> Midterms are over and I'm about to embark on the next stage of school so we'll see how much that kills my ability to write


End file.
